Holding Onto You
by Stoneage Woman
Summary: “So I have to ask again, because I don’t think you have anyone else who will- are you sure you’re alright?" Threeshot, Bruce Wayne/Gordon friendship. Part 5 of my 'Rooftop' series.
1. Barely Breathing

Title: Holding on To You

DEDICATION: This installment of the Rooftop series is dedicated to all those people who gave me long, detailed reviews for "Making Ends Pre-empt the Means". Your comments were invaluable and your continued support in spite of the fact that many of you disliked the direction I was taking the story in is amazing and a huge vote of confidence. So thank you; and I hope you enjoy this. :D

THANKS TO: Warriora, my marvelous beta-reader.

NOTE: I've divided this installment of the 'Rooftop' series into three parts. All three parts have already been written so you won't have to wait long before I update. This is also the first story in this series to be written from Bruce's point of view, and will probably be the only one. Both these are deviations from my original plan, which was to have the entire thing as a series of one-shots written entirely from Gordon's perspective. So this particular fic is a direct result of your reviews from the last time- I haven't changed the direction I'm taking the story in but I wanted to give something back to those who spent so much time and thought on their comments.

So…I sincerely hope you enjoy this, and even if you're still not convinced, will continue to review and criticize my work. I really love you guys! :D

* * *

Part 1: Barely Breathing

_I'm falling apart, I'm barely breathing,  
With a broken heart that's still beating,  
In the pain there is healing,  
In your name, I found meaning..._

_- _Lifehouse_, "Broken"_

* * *

Midnight. The party was at its peak. And for the first time since he had taken on mantle of both the Batman and _Bruce Wayne_, he couldn't find the energy to pretend any enthusiasm for it. He sat at the bar in the formal dining room, sipping on a dry martini, brooding. The sounds of the party washed over him- soft, formulaic music, people making meaningless small talk with people they barely knew, people pretending to make meaningless small talk but really cinching important business deals with people they barely knew, overdressed women flirting coyly with men twice their age.

He had hosted and attended so many of these events in the last few years that it had all become routine. If Alfred were here, he would have …he cut that thought off by gulping down his drink so fast that it left his throat burning and his eyes watering. He had always hated these parties. Their sheer _meaninglessness_ always left him feeling like he was dragging his parents' names and everything they had stood for through the mud. _The apple has fallen far from the tree. _That was what old friends and colleagues of his parents thought of him as.

And yet he had always been able to pretend to enjoy it all, because he had always been sure that protecting his identity had been worth the subterfuge. After all, it didn't take a genius to figure out that the man behind the black mask and the cape and cowl was a man of means. Not everyone had the resources to design a bullet-proof flight-suit and a _Batmobile._ All it took was a little bit of digging into the activities of the R&D department at Wayne Enterprises- it had been embarrassing how easily Coleman Reese had figured it out- and just like that, he would be finished.

The only protection he had was if people believed that all he cared about was partying and throwing a fundraiser or three so he could give himself an excuse to party. And it worked; no one would even remotely suspect that Bruce Wayne, notorious for his excesses and his hedonistic tendencies could possibly be the vigilante that spent his nights jumping off rooftops. So he tolerated it…

But today was the first party he had hosted since Alfred's death- it had only been a month, but still far too long for someone like _Bruce Wayne_ to spend in grief for a mere butler. His "friends" had been dropping hints all over the place, and eventually he'd cracked. The house had felt far too empty without Alfred; the nights, though he spent most of them stalking the city, were still far too long and fraught with bone-chilling nightmares that made him wish he could just go without sleep.

In sheer desperation he had thought filling the house with people might help...but these people, if they weren't just rich and looking for a good time because they had nothing better to do were shallow social climbers or aspiring business owners who came only for the contacts they might be able to make over free drinks and food. He gulped down the last sip of his martini and made a small gesture to the bartender to hand him another. It was his fourth, and he normally didn't drink this much out of a paranoid fear that he might reveal something while inebriated, but tonight he couldn't bring himself to care.

Alfred had kept him grounded, had seen past both his masks, 'Bruce Wayne, Playboy Extraordinaire' and 'Batman, Misunderstood Vigilante', to Bruce. _Just Bruce._ With the sardonic glances that conveyed so much while seeming to say so little and his dry, humorous understatements he'd managed to keep Bruce from dying of boredom and loneliness. An image of the butler rose unbidden in his mind, old as he had always been, but strong and healthy; eyes smiling in spite of his stern face.

And then, even as love and pain knifed through him at the memory, another image rose of the same man lying spread-eagled on the floor of a grocery store between two aisles of laundry detergents and breakfast cereal, blood pooling under his body and eyes open and blank as the Batman swooped into the room seconds too late—choking, Bruce downed his glass in a single gulp. This time the bartender just set another glass in front of him without his needing to ask, and he started to gulp that down, too, although a voice in his head was warning him that if he drank anymore he'd have an extremely painful hangover tomorrow. His mind was already starting to buzz strangely, the sounds of the party felt a million miles away; even the hand holding his drink felt disconnected from his body.

And then somebody- a woman- screamed.

_He had followed Lamburn for two days through the Narrows, mind still reeling from what Gordon had asked him to do. He couldn't…his one rule…_

_And the crime scene photographs of how those girls had been found flashed continuously through his mind. He'd watched as Lamburn had stalked a young woman who worked the evening shift at a strip club. She was paying her way through medical school and her stage name was Randy and her real name was Harriet Randall. She had brown hair and blue eyes that always seemed scared, and she carried pepper spray in her hands as every night she walked the distance from the strip club to the bus stand as if expecting someone to jump her at any moment. As if she could feel someone watching from the shadows. _

_For such a big man, Trevor Lamburn could be very stealthy when he wanted to be. He was a regular at the strip club, and watched her perform every night. He only followed her until she climbed onto her bus, and then he climbed onto the next bus and went home to his brother, the D.A., who pretended not to notice his absence. _

_Bruce barely slept during those two days and nightmares haunted him when he did. Images of Harriet Randall lying naked and bleeding on the street. Images of other brunettes he'd seen emerging from the strip club late at night, wearing that same, scared look. Fleeting but terrifying visions of a bleeding Alfred advancing on him as he covered between department store aisles holding laundry detergent and breakfast cereal telling him he was nothing but a cold-blooded killer, that he should have given up on him a long time ago. _

_And still Bruce struggled, wavering upon a knife's edge. Could he do the one thing he had sworn never to do? Or could he not do anything, and live with it when he read in the newspaper a few days later that Harriet Randall had been raped and killed? On the third night Lamburn finally did more than follow her - as she rounded a corner he jumped out, knife in hand. She tried to use the pepper spray, but he knocked it out of her hands with laughable ease; she tried to fight him as he grabbed her arms and shoved her against a wall. And Bruce watched, unable to move, unable to breathe as he tried to rip off her blouse with his teeth. _

_She screamed. Blood-curdling, terrified, helpless, and he reacted on pure instinct. Swooped down, pulled Lamburn off her, and snapped his neck, in one quick, efficient motion, just as he had been trained. The girl took off running, leaving him standing there, staring down at Lamburn's body, wondering what he had done._

Bruce shot to his feet, knocking his glass over, head whipping wildly in search of an attack, a rape- _here at his party_- and then he stopped. In the split second it had taken to get to his feet, the scream had dissolved into drunken laughter. It hadn't even been a scream, he realized, just a woman squealing in excitement or joy. A little too loud and indiscreet for a party like this, but it was not so very uncommon for someone to get a little too tipsy. His nightmares- his every living moment- had been so haunted by that night- _that scream_ and what it had compelled him to do- that the smallest thing was enough to take him back there, to that alley.

Bile rose in his throat as the images flashed through his mind again. Before anyone could stop him he strode out of the room into the hallway, heart hammering. He had to take quite a few turns before he found an unoccupied guestroom. He shut the door and locked it behind him, and then hurried out onto the terrace, needing to get as far away from the party as possible. The cold air hit his skin as he left the central heating of the house- _that night was cold, too; so cold-_ and _that_ thought was all it took for his already churning stomach to rebel. His knees began to buckle as he coughed up the contents of his stomach into a bed of nauseatingly sweet-smelling flowers, but a hand suddenly closed on his arm, propping him up. If he'd had the energy, he'd have jumped out of his skin, but as it was he was too busy throwing up to even look around and see who it was.

There was no way he could mistake that voice, though, in the last place he had ever expected to hear it- _here_, at one of his parties. "Here- let me-"

_"Gordon?" _He straightened as the nausea abated.

Gordon blinked at him. "Mr. Wayne?" he asked, sounding just as surprised to see him- clearly he hadn't recognized him in the darkness. "I, uh- are you alright?"

"I'm fine," Bruce said, pulling away from him, needing some distance, because seeing Gordon on top of what he had just relived wasn't doing much good for his mental state. "Just had a little too much to drink, that's all."

"I apologize," Gordon said hurriedly, sounding for all the world like a kid caught stealing cookies. "I shouldn't have come in here; I just needed some air-"

"My house is completely open to all my guests, Commissioner," Bruce interrupted him, trying to regain his composure. He _had_ invited the man, after all. He always did- it wouldn't do for such a respected man to not be invited to one of Bruce Wayne's parties- but Gordon never came except for the occasional fundraiser, and this wasn't one of them. "You just surprised me."

Gordon looked at him more closely, and Bruce suddenly wished he was wearing his cape and cowl. "Are you sure you're okay?" he asked. "You look…"

He turned his face away, knowing the floodlights illuminating the outside of the house would make visible what the dim lighting inside had masked- the dark circles under his eyes, and his exhausted, pinched appearance. What with the nightmares and the lack of appetite, he knew he looked like hell. "I'm fine, G- Commissioner. Really I am." He cursed himself for almost slipping on the name _twice_- he was ridiculously off balance today…

There was a long silence, and Bruce prayed the man would just leave. He didn't have the energy for this, not tonight. But for some reason, Gordon hesitated.

"Mr. Wayne…I know I should probably go, but that day, you thanked me for being there, even though…even though I barely know you." Bruce couldn't stop himself from flinching, and he knew that Gordon had noticed because with his next words he sounded more sure of himself. "So I _have_ to ask again, because I don't think you have anyone else who will- are you _sure _you're alright?"

He opened his mouth to say yes a third time, but something in Gordon's eyes made the words catch in his throat. He _wasn't_ alright, and he didn't know if he ever would be, and he just didn't have the strength to pretend anymore. Losing Alfred, this endless charade- Bruce Wayne by day, Batman by night, with no one there to know who he was anymore; and now the fear that had always haunted him, that he would become what he had been trained to be- was destroying him, piece by piece. And he had _no one_. Because Gordon was right, no one else _had_ asked him that, until today, not even Lucius Fox.

Swallowing hard, he turned away from Gordon, not wanting him to see that he was fighting tears. A hand descended on his shoulder, warm, solid, silently comforting, and the simple touch, after so many weeks of no physical contact was all it took to break him. His eyes flooded against his will and his shoulders began to shake. He had always cried silently, ever since he was a little boy, and now was no exception. The hand on his shoulder tightened imperceptibly, but other than that Gordon didn't make a sound.

* * *

TBC…


	2. The Broken Locks

Title: Holding on To You

* * *

Part 2: The Broken Locks

_The broken locks were a warning,  
You got inside my head,  
I tried my best to be guarded  
But I'm an open book instead._

_- _Lifehouse_, "Broken"_

* * *

Eventually, the tears ran dry. He wiped at his face, embarrassed, feeling a lot more clear-headed now that he'd upchucked most of the alcohol in his stomach. Gordon stepped away from him, sensing he needed a moment to gather himself, and Bruce suddenly wondered what the man must think of him- Gordon was right, as far as his public persona was concerned, he _barely_ knew him. He must look ridiculously pathetic if the only friend he had was a man he had met less than a handful of times in his life. He felt his cheeks begin to heat, and he opened his mouth to say something that would probably have been ridiculously awkward and uncomfortable if he'd managed to get the words out, but Gordon beat him to it.

"I'm sorry," he said roughly.

Bruce frowned, grief momentarily forgotten at the ocean of guilt behind the two words. He turned to face the man in surprise. "What for?"

"For…for your loss," Gordon said, sounding like he had to fight to get the words out. "I'm sorry for your loss." The words were strangely intense, like he was personally holding himself responsible, and Bruce's frown deepened.

For the first time that night- well, for the first time in weeks, if he was being honest- he looked- _really _looked- at Gordon's face. Illuminated by the harsh floodlights, the exhaustion was as plain as day. The skin around his eyes looked more lined than Bruce remembered, and the dark circles were almost as bad as Bruce's.

"Commissioner…are _you _alright?" he asked hesitantly, wondering how the man would take his repeating the question back to him. "You look exhausted."

"I'm fine, Mr. Wayne," Gordon said tightly, instinctively trying to turn his face away from the glare of the lights. "There's just been a lot going on at work lately," he said, trying and failing to sound dismissive. "I haven't been getting much sleep."

If any statement had double meanings that no one was supposed to pick up on, that one was it. In retrospect, Bruce didn't know why it surprised him so much. Of _course _Gordon would be losing sleep over Lamburn. He had crossed his own inviolable lines when he'd asked the Batman to kill. Bruce had known that…but Gordon had sounded so _sure._ So sure that it was the only option left. And…he had come to the party.

"Commissioner?" he asked before he could stop himself. "Why exactly are you here? I mean, don't take this the wrong way; you're obviously more than welcome, but you don't usually come to these things. I'd have thought if you'd been having a difficult time at work, you'd have wanted to spend your spare time with your family."

"My family can't help me with this," Gordon said. He was silent for a long moment, his eyes distant, dark with pain. His voice, when he spoke, sounded like he was million miles away. "I did something awful awhile back, and I think…I think I lost a very good friend over it."

_What?! _ With a herculean effort, Bruce managed to keep the shock off his face, but inwardly he was reeling. _Why_ would Gordon think…?

"I just…I came here to remind myself that what I did was necessary," the other man continued. He fell silent again, and it was a minute before he became conscious of Bruce's stare. He flushed, clearly realizing how absurd he had sounded, and stammered, "I know that…doesn't make sense…"

No, that _didn't_ make sense, Bruce thought. It didn't make any sense at all that Gordon thought that he had lost him, or that he was this affected by it. He _had_ pushed Gordon away this past month, had acted cold and distant and kept their interactions minimal and business-like, as they had been before he'd slowly let the Batman open up to the man without realizing what he was doing until it was too late and their equation had already changed.

In the space of two days Alfred had died and Gordon- the one constant left in his life- had asked him to do the one thing he had sworn never to do. And he had done it, because after seeing Lamburn stalk that poor girl for two days and seeing the crime scene photographs of others he had brutalized, he hadn't been able to just incapacitate him and move on- had known it wouldn't have been enough. But he'd also killed Lamburn because Gordon had asked him to, and he trusted the man implicitly. Trusted his judgment, his love for Gotham, and the fact that he was one of the best people Bruce had ever known.

And that, more than anything, had terrified him. The idea that Gordon could have so much power over him…the Batman wasn't supposed to have vulnerabilities, or limits. So he'd panicked and pushed Gordon away, but it had _never_ been because he resented Gordon for what he'd asked him to do. The thought that he would think that, that it would haunt him...

"Maybe he doesn't blame you," he said hoarsely. "Maybe he just needs some time…" Because _goddamnit_, he needed some _time_ before he let someone close to him again. The Batman couldn't have limits, and once he opened that door…

"I never said he was a 'he'," Gordon said, looking at him strangely.

_Crap._ What the hell was _wrong_ with him today? "I know, I just assumed," he said quickly.

Gordon studied him for a second before accepting this with a nod. His face turned morose again. "What I did was pretty unforgiveable, Mr. Wayne," he said, sounding pained. "I don't think time will change anything."

Bruce stared at him, stunned by the despair on his face. Gordon _truly_ believed the Batman blamed him, and it was tearing him apart. He was…_shaken_, humbled to the core by how much he obviously meant to the man, and seeing him like this was more than he could bear_._ His jaw set, and he made his decision.

He had finally found his limits.

* * *

TBC…


	3. And I Still See

Title: Holding on To You

* * *

Part 3: And I Still See

_And I still see your reflection  
Inside of my eyes  
That are still looking for purpose,  
They're still looking for life..._

_- _Lifehouse_, "Broken"_

* * *

The night, like most nights in Gotham, was dark and cold. He leaned against the railings off the roof of yet another nondescript warehouse, and watched Gordon approach, feeling apprehensive. Yeah, he _had_ decided to open up to the man, but how the hell was he supposed to do that wearing the cape and cowl and with a growl disguising his voice? It had been a lot easier back at the party, on that terrace, when he'd just been himself.

He suddenly felt a burning desire to just tell Gordon who he was, and be done with this exhausting charade, but he quashed it at once. That was _not_ an option. He had been less than circumspect in the past about revealing his identity, but that had been when the Batman had still been considered the savior of Gotham city. Now, with how hated he was, that knowledge would only endanger Gordon. He sighed a little, unable to suppress a stab of loneliness.

"What have you got for me?" Gordon asked as he finally reached him, all business, clearly taking his cue from the Batman's behavior these past few weeks.

The words he had intended to say died at the tone, and he growled, "There's going to be a drug deal. In the Narrows, in the alley behind Charles Street, at eight o'clock tomorrow, outside the _Berkos_ Chinese restaurant."

It had taken four nights of silently shadowing the area's latest drug-lord to get the specifics on that one. At least this time, the Batman wouldn't need to come into it- Gordon could just say he'd gotten a tip from an undercover source.

"Thanks, I'll take care of it," Gordon said. "Will you be there?"

"Of course," he returned, "But I'll stay concealed unless things go badly south."

Gordon hesitated a moment, clearly wondering why he hadn't taken off yet. "Well…I hope I don't see you, then…" He laughed weakly, and turned to go, but Bruce caught the disappointment and sorrow in his eyes.

"Gordon, wait," he said. The man turned to regard him in surprise, and he took a deep breath, steeling himself. "I know…these last few weeks I've acted distant and…and cold…but I want you to know it isn't _you._ I…"

Damn, why was it so hard to get the words out?

"You don't owe me any explanations," Gordon said softly. But the guarded hope in his eyes let Bruce know he'd very much like some anyway.

"Yes, I do," Bruce said, and then paused again. He couldn't say this using the growl. "I…I lost someone very close to me, recently." Gordon's head snapped up, a staggered look on his face at the words and the fact that he'd spoken them in his own voice. They both knew he could easily figure out the Batman's identity with that information, with only a little digging. Well, Bruce was trusting him not to try.

"And then right after that, you asked me to break my one rule," he continued softly. "And I…" He swallowed hard. "He was the last person I had left, Gordon, and he would have been so disappointed that I-" He broke off as a fresh wave of grief stole his breath.

Gordon looked stricken, horrified. _"God,"_ he breathed, "I'm so sorry. If I had known-"

"You would have waited awhile before asking me to do it," Bruce interrupted, "But you would still have asked me, eventually. You would have had to." Gordon flinched and averted his eyes, unable to deny the words. "I don't blame you," Bruce continued steadily, and Gordon turned to stare at him, stunned. "It was the hardest thing I've ever had to do but …it had to be done. I know that. If you'd waited before you asked me to do it, the only difference would have been more women dead at the hands of that bastard. So…I don't blame you."

Silence descended again.

"Are you alright?" Gordon asked quietly.

_Déjà vu._ His breath caught. The ache that had found a home in his chest since Alfred's death suddenly became a scream, and a wave of gut-wrenching loneliness threatened to swallow him. "He was the last person left who knew who I was," he managed to choke out. "There's no one else. I…" Eyes burning, unable to believe he was breaking down yet _again_, he turned away.

"You can tell me," Gordon said softly. "Who you are. You can tell me."

God, how he wanted to.

"No," he said, switching back to the growl, hoping it would give him the clarity he needed to pull himself together. "I can't take that risk."

"Maybe that's my choice," the other man returned.

_"No," _he growled. "I can't have that on my head, Gordon. Please don't ask me again."

Silence fell again, there was nothing left to say…but he couldn't bring himself to leave.

And then a hand descended on his shoulder, just as it had done the other night, and although he couldn't feel it's warmth through the Kevlar, he could still feel its solid, reassuring weight.

"Just because I don't know what you look like, doesn't mean I don't know who you are." Gordon said softly, and Bruce's heart contracted. "We _are_ still two. Don't ever forget that."

For a long moment, Bruce couldn't speak. Then, brokenly, he whispered, "Thank you."

* * *

_So I'm holding on,  
I'm holding on,  
I'm holding on,  
I'm barely holding onto you..._

_- _Lifehouse_, "Broken"_

* * *

END.

I promise, in the next (and final) installment Gordon WILL find out who he is. Sorry for all the cliff-hangers.

A couple of things- first, some of you seem to think this is a Batman-turns-dark-and-will-have-to-be-killed-story. He's not Harvey Dent, guys. I stand by his killing Trevor Lamburn, under the circumstances. And it's not like he's never killed before. Remember Ra's Al Ghul? He said he was just "letting him die" but that was just semantics. He will kill if he has to, for Gotham. Same goes for Gordon. They both cross lines when it comes to Gotham. Gordon worked with Batman before he even knew he was totally trustworthy, and he let him take the blame for Dents murders even though he knew that could result in him being killed by the cops who would hunt him. So I don't think its that much of a stretch him asking Bruce to kill.

Also, I hope I gave an explanation for Batman acting more and more like Bruce around Gordon. I urge you all to please review- I'm a bit disappointed with my review count for this installment, to be honest. Well, not with the count, just with the fact that I seem to have lost some of my old reviewers. And considering that this installment was written specifically for their sakes, I would have wanted to know what they thought. Of course, some of you are still around- and I thank you guys- but some of you aren't. If you're lurking, please do review.

And stay tuned for the next installment!


End file.
